by Ward, Marsha
The man tried to lift Ben, then swore softly. “Here’s another hole.” He lowered Ben to the ground.
“Where? I don’t feel it.”
“Here on your side.” He checked Ben’s opposite side. “Didn’t go through. Is your spine broke, Owen?”
“I can’t tell.”
The man gave him another drink, then picked up his rifle, said “Lie still” again, and ran into the trees.
Ben craned his neck to where he could see his side and noticed his blood spilled steadily from the hole. Not much blood, it appeared, but he had nothing with which to staunch the flow. No part of his body below the hole in his side made response to his mental commands to move. Melancholy gripped his spirit as he felt a subtle weakness overcoming him, rising from his waist upward.
So I am to die, he thought. Have I any valor left?
He took Ella Ruth’s likeness from his pocket, kissed it tenderly, struggling against tears, and laid it on his breast above his heart. He dug out his pencil and pocket book and added to his letter to Ma.
Waynesborough battle
Ma,
This note is short. My life is forfeit, as I am sorly wounded and bleedin my strength away. I am griev’d to leave without seeing you again. God has struck me down for my sin. Treat Miss Ella Ruth All’n with kindness as she was to be my wife.
If my seed took root, guard her as you woud your own child. I do not know how her pa will treat her if she is increasin with a poor man’s bastard. It is to late for me to make it right.
I feel life ebbing. My last hope is this note will be found and sent to you.
With tender affect’n
Your dying son, Benj’n Owen
Knowing he was spending his last bit of strength, Ben folded the letter with clumsy fingers, put it into the pocket book, and placed the leather case on his chest beside Ella Ruth’s likeness. His hands dropped to his sides. He whispered, “Jesus God, forgive my sins,” and said no more.
~~~
Rod — March 3, 1865
When Rod Owen was rousted out of his blankets with orders to report to General Rosser, he wondered what news had come. Once the regimental commanders and several other company captains had been gathered, he found out. A scout had come early in the morning with word that General Early’s command at Waynesborough had been almost entirely captured. The general and some of his staff had escaped across the Blue Ridge, but about 1,100 men under guard of the Yankee cavalry would soon be passing through Staunton toward Winchester.
Rod wondered what Rosser was going to do about the situation.
The cavalry general sheltered underneath a spread canvas, on his knees, drawing a map in the mud. “We won’t leave those boys in Yankee hands,” he said. “With so many prisoners, they’ll likely take this road. We’ll hound them on the flanks, and attack here, near Harrisonburg, tomorrow night.” He shook his finger at his commanders. “They’ll be on the alert. They know I won’t rest while my countrymen are held captive.” He pointed to a pair of company commanders. “You will hold the fords here and here.” He drew the fords across the line designated as the Shenandoah River. “Keep them bottled up until we get those boys free.” He looked up. “Owen, you’re my spy. Take a squad to mingle with the prisoners. Incite them to revolt and escape when we attack. If you find your boy, get his cooperation to help you. Be cautious. I don’t want you to join the prisoners permanently.”
“Yes sir,” Rod said, feeling the tingle of anticipation that danger always raised in his belly.
Rosser got to his feet. “The Yankees need to think we have a larger force, so we’ll ride past them, double back, and pass ‘em again.” He pointed to three other captains. “That’s your duty,” he said, and took a lungful of air. “Boots and saddles, gentlemen.”
Rod went back to his company, sorting out in his mind who best could join him in the delicate business. How he wished Rulon were in his company. He would keep a cool head.
No matter. He would take Evans, Wylie, and Court. He could risk no more than the four of them.
By now, the company was awake and the men were cooking rations over small fires. He snorted. What passed for rations. The days of full rations had ended long ago, when Sheridan burned the Valley.
Rod pulled his chosen few aside, gave them instructions, and left the lieutenant in command of the company. Then he pulled a worn coat over a linsey-woolsey shirt and wool pants, and they set off on the mission.
Once they found the army and their prisoners, it wasn’t difficult to slip in among the dispirited captives and spread out. What was difficult was reanimating the men, trying to give them heart enough to agree to revolt when the attack from Rosser began. More times than not, he and his men encountered negative shakes of the head and little support for Rosser’s plan. These men had lost all nerve and only wanted to get to a Federal camp where food was available.
Worse still, Rod couldn’t find Ben. Few of the men knew him. Those who did know him had no news. The prisoners were too tired, too disheartened to care. Feeling sick to the depths of his soul, Rod stuck to his task, but when night came and Rosser with it, the captives made no attempt to break free. Rod and his men got away only because they carried pistols and made judicious use of them to extract themselves from the tender guardianship of the Union soldiers.
~~~
Rod — March 4, 1865
Chafing that the mission had not succeeded, but even more because he hadn’t found Ben among the captives, Rod and his three spies rejoined Rosser’s command. The general decided to give up the rescue effort and turned to follow Sheridan, who had continued toward Petersburg.
“He’s joining Grant, blast him,” Court said.
“We’ll slow him down some,” Rod answered, swinging up into his saddle for another day’s hard ride.
When the Owen Dragoons entered Waynesborough, Rod found that a complement of citizens had buried the dead in the rifle pits behind the fortifications they’d defended. His belly crawling with dread, he went to the town hall and asked for information about the casualties.
“We kept the effects from the lads,” the clerk said. “Some had very little, but one boy had time to write a letter. What’s your name again?”
“Owen. Roderick Owen. I’m looking for my son, Benjamin.”
“Owen. Where do you hale from, captain?” The man rubbed his ear.
“My farm’s outside Mount Jackson, Shenandoah County.”
The clerk’s face went solemn, and he shook his head as though to clear a bad memory. “I’m sorry, captain. We kept a few things from a boy—”
“What do you have?” Rod kept himself from grabbing the man’s lapels by a strong effort.
“There’s a pocketbook with a few notes addressed to Ben or Benjamin Owen, and a likeness of a young lady.”
Rod’s legs quivered. He felt a peculiar weakness sapping his vitality, as though he were gushing blood from his heart.
“What is your wife’s name, sir?”
“Julia.” Was that faint voice his own?
“I’m so sorry, sir.” He retrieved a parcel wrapped in a cloth from a cubbyhole and handed it to Rod. “We took these from your son’s body. There’s a letter for your missus.”
Rod cleared his throat several times before he could manage a “thank you.” He took the parcel, left the hall, and struggled to his horse on legs so weak he barely made the short distance before clutching the saddle to keep himself from falling.
“Sir?” It was Evans, his corporal.
“Ben,” Rod whispered in a hoarse voice. “He’s gone.” He heard the man swear, but had no strength to reprimand him for his language. He was sucked dry. His voice had crackled like an old corn husk left on the ear too long. He thought of Julia. This news would kill her. He must not send her word until he could be with her.
He unbuttoned his shirt and tucked the parcel inside. It was too soon to look at the last remaining vestiges of Benjamin’s life. He had spent too much time in this town, and Rosser
needed him to harass Sheridan. Duty called.
He swallowed with great effort. Honor. Duty. At least he still had those. He clucked to his horse. He was still at war. With Sheridan. With Grant. With the Federals.
Chapter 29
Julia — April 7, 1865
Julia heard a noise outside and looked through her kitchen window. Someone trudged down her lane from the Pike. The man didn’t wear a blue uniform. She could be thankful for that. However, he could be a straggling soldier come to ask for food. She grabbed her rifle and moved toward the back door.
Should she wait until the man knocked, or stand where he could see her? Show that she was armed?
She called to the girls to go into hiding, opened the door, and took a step out onto the stoop.
The man hesitated when he saw her, then set down his gear and began to run toward her.
Julia felt a shiver of fear. What compelled the man to do that? She lifted the rifle into view.
The man stopped, raised one hand in surrender and called, “Ma?”
That was confusing. Who would call her that? She saw the man bore a bandage about his left shoulder. Perhaps he was playing on her sympathies.
“Who are you?” she asked, leveling the weapon.
“Six little beans!” he spat out in disgust.
Julia dropped the rifle, running, running, running down the lane to her son, her James, her boy who wore Peter’s hair but had come home. His arms were out, ready to embrace her, and she gladly flew into them, bumping against him with a thud that drew a groan from his body.
She cried out in wordless wonder, kissing his neck, his scruffy chin, his lips, his eyes, her arms about him, enfolding him against her breast.
“Ma,” he protested. “Mind the shoulder.”
She stood back then, holding his forearms and taking in the sight of him.
“How bad?” she murmured.
“Not so bad if you don’t bump it,” he replied in a strangled voice.
“Oh my dear son,” she said, sniffling. “I beg pardon. Come. Let’s get you under a roof.”
~~~
Rod — April 13, 1865
Rod led his horse up the lane, his heart thumping from equal parts relief, joy, and dread. The war was over. He’d never leave Julie again. He had a burdensome task ahead of him.
He figured if the telegraph wires were up, news had spread of the surrender, and she must be aware he would be on the homeward road.
The kitchen door opened. Mayhap she had been watching, or heard his step crunching on the gravel of the lane.
She stepped through the door, halted, put the rifle in the corner and ran toward him.
He dropped the reins and strode toward her, then quit all pretense of age and dignity and broke into a run.
His heart stopped when he saw her smile. He would wipe it from her face with his tidings. But for a moment, he could savor the sweetness of her welcome and hold her close before he broke the news.
She came into his embrace smelling of soap and wind, nuzzling into the space below his jaw that fit her like a glove. He knew his beard scratched, but she made no protest as she laid her lips on his cheek, then settled into his arms for a long, hungry kiss.
He gave what was due and more. Sorrow drove him as much as longing. His heart shrank that he had to break hers.
“Rod,” she murmured when he let her breathe. “Is it truly over?”
“The fightin’ is done,” he answered, and she looked up at him. Did she sense that he had more to impart? Was this the best time and place to tell her Benjamin wasn’t coming home?
He felt naked out in the air. Better to tell her indoors, where she could weep unashamed and away from prying eyes.
He should put up the horse. He looked toward the barn. No barn. No wellhead. No stock pens. No stock.
He set his jaw. This is what it meant to be the loser in the conflict.
“Albert,” she called, startling him.
He looked down at his wife. She had already adjusted to losses around the farm. He would have to make an effort. He retraced his steps, brought the horse to where his Julie stood.
The boy came. He gave him an embrace, then handed him the reins.
“What more?” she asked.
He nodded to the house. “Indoors.” The huskiness in his voice disturbed him. He had to be strong.
“Rod?” Julia asked once they were inside the main room.
“Julie.” He swallowed the lump tightening his throat. “Sit.”
She eyed him, then did as he bid her, but sitting upright, not relaxed.
God help him. He did not want to say the words. He looked into her eyes and dug in his shirt for the parcel he’d kept close to his heart for the last few weeks. He had not looked at it. They would have to do that together. He steeled himself and unwrapped the cloth.
The bundle contained three items, a leather pocket notebook, a folded frame that probably contained a photographic likeness, and a letter folded over and addressed to Julia.
He looked over at her and caught deep fear that shadowed her eyes. She already knew the items meant something very bad.
He cleared his throat. His voice came out more ragged than he would have liked when he said, “We chased Sheridan through Waynesborough after the fight there.” He paused to clear his throat again. “Julie, Ben wasn’t among the prisoners Sheridan sent north. A fellow at the town hall gave me these.” He held out the letter to her, and she took it, her face set and as white as he had ever seen it.
She read the note, her breathing irregular, her hands shaking. She stopped once and laid the paper in her lap. She bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, then took the paper up again.
He watched her read it, his soul shivering. Ben. What had he written that harrowed her up so badly? Unable to watch her pain, he looked at the other items he still held. He opened the picture frame and drew in a sharp breath.
Theodore Allen’s daughter. Miss Ella Ruth. He hadn’t known they had reconciled after their quarrel, but it had been a long war. If he had carried her portrait... the situation between them must have been serious.
He opened the pocketbook. It contained writing paper, and several letters, all from Miss Allen. He flipped the latest one open, ashamed to read a private message, but astonished to see her greeting.
“Dearest husband,” she had begun. He closed the paper.
Julia sat with her head bowed again, the letter resting in her lap. From what he could see, she wasn’t crying. How could she not cry? His own grief had gnawed at him, causing tears to fall in the dark when he could mourn privately.
She looked up. Her eyes had dark hollows around them, as though the news she read had caused them to sink into the sockets.
He held out the likeness and she took it. “Miss Allen,” he said. “Somehow, they married. I’ll pay a visit and inform her.” He huddled against his crossed arms.
She whispered something so low he bent toward her and asked, “What’s that?”
“Ben thinks they did not wed.” She traced the curve of the girl’s cheek.
He straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he held out Ella Ruth’s letter. “She calls him ‘husband.’ That’s as far as I read.”
She shook her head, refusing to take the letter.
He watched her swallow, breathe deeply, and shut her eyes against the pain.
“Julie?” He wanted to offer comfort, and didn’t know how.
“You must be tired,” she said, her voice quivering just slightly. She rose and stepped into his arms.
He held her gently. “Bone deep,” he answered, his shoulders sloping downward as renewed grief dropped its load onto them.
~~~
Ella Ruth — April 14, 1865
Ella Ruth went to answer the knock on the front door, since Lula was busy in the kitchen. She didn’t expect anyone in particular, but when she opened the door, she put her hand to her mouth. The formidable Mrs. Owen and her husband stood on her porc
h and stared at her with grave eyes.
A moment later, she remembered her manners and stepped back, uttering polite words bidding them to enter.
Mr. and Mrs. Owen had never been to her home. She watched to see if Mrs. Owen would look around in admiration of— of what, exactly? The furniture had grown almost shabby over the duration of the conflict.
But no, Mrs. Owen never turned her head. She gazed straight at Ella Ruth, which was a bit disconcerting. Mr. Owen’s head was more bowed, like he had the weight of the fall of Petersburg on his shoulders. How did a man bear surrendering to a victorious foe? Not well, she supposed, as she ushered them in silence toward the parlor.
Something must be wrong with Ben, she thought. Why else would his parents visit her?
She felt her limbs go numb as she tried to gesture toward the sofa. Something is very wrong with Ben. She sank into a chair as they took places on the sofa opposite her. Her heart became a block of ice.
“May I get you a refreshment?” she asked, her voice shaking. Shaking terribly. Shaking as though she spoke into a windstorm.
Mr. Owen moved his hand to dismiss the thought of food or drink.
“Miss Allen,” he began. He bowed his head. It seemed like hours passed before he raised it again. “Miss,” he began again and stopped. “Daughter Ella Ruth,” he managed to say at last.
She knew for certain then, and her heart cracked as she lurched upright, a moan starting in the pit of her stomach and rising through her chest and up into her throat to emerge as a cry of grief so terrible she could not stand the sound of it. She collapsed back into the chair, limp as the babe she would never carry. The sounds coming from her body hurt her ears, yet she could not stop them. They came in waves of agony more desolate than could be borne.
Mr. Owen was on his feet, coming over, then stopping as his wife rose unsteadily and dropped to her knees beside Ella Ruth.
“Go ahead,” she whispered. “Let it out.” Mrs. Owen’s voice also shook, but she remained dry-eyed.
Doesn’t she care?
Ella Ruth’s keening continued, the sound hollow as a wolf’s at a distance. Surely her heart must burst due to the bubble of anguish that rose in her midsection, pressing against her lungs, shredding her dignity, killing her soul.